When The Road Runs Out
by Polomonkey
Summary: When Merlin's magic is revealed, Uther attempts to enslave him as a collared sorcerer. Can Merlin count on Arthur to save him or has the Prince been poisoned against him by the King's lies?


Disclaimer: Don't own Merlin

Warnings: Threats of non-con, collaring, slavery, minor violence, humiliation

AN: It's not actually as horrible as the warnings make it sound! So this is my first attempt at canon era fic, set vaguely around the start of season two, but certain details may be fudged to fit the story. Hope you enjoy it.

~III~

Merlin's magic is discovered on a perfectly normal day in May, his second year in Camelot.

It had been a tense few months. When word reached the court that Cenred was training collared sorcerers to fight in battle for him, the King had reacted badly. The strictures on magic were tweaked to be even tighter than before, the punishments handed out to suspected sorcerers more severe. Council meetings were dominated by discussion on how to counter the magical threat; and Uther prowled the halls of the castle like a man possessed, leaving servants and nobles alike cowering in his wake. A mood of watchful unease had settled over the city, as though waiting for a calamity.

Morgana had gone to visit Lord and Lady Harrington in the North, taking Gwen with her. She claimed the visit would help foster good relations with an important ally, but Merlin suspects she just wanted to get away from Camelot for a while. He envies her. With Morgana gone, Arthur bears the brunt of Uther's impatience and displeasure, and consequently Merlin has to deal with Arthur in a semi-constant foul mood.

He makes allowances for Arthur that he might not normally make, however. Uther really is unpleasable – made happy neither by feasts nor jousts. Everything draws his critical eye, from the knight's training, to the cook's food, to the very way the servants pour the wine. Arthur often gets the sharp end of his tongue, and so Merlin tries not to mind when the Prince snaps at him in turn. Merlin knows how Arthur longs to please his father, how he takes any criticism from him deeply to heart. So he holds his peace and refrains from challenging Arthur as he normally would, at least until things to return to normal.

Despite Merlin's private vow, a day comes when he cannot stay silent. It's the day a traveller is arrested for selling 'good luck charms', though it takes less than a minute for Gaius to ascertain they are completely devoid of magical properties. Merlin is in the great hall with Arthur when the man is dragged before the King.

Except he isn't a man, not really. Looking close, Merlin can see he's barely sixteen years. Yet apparently he's old enough to be condemned for selling "magical artefacts".

"They're only for decoration," the boy pleads, forced to his knees in front of Uther. "There's no magic in 'em. They're just a bit of fun."

"Fun?" Uther says coldly. "You would make a mockery of Camelot's laws by parading such trinkets?"

The boy quails under Uther's glare.

"I meant no harm," he says miserably.

There is a long silence, the onlookers in the hall standing unnaturally still.

"A night in the dungeons," Uther says eventually, and the tension in the room eases somewhat. Arthur turns back to the scroll in his hand, and Merlin can read the faint relief in his face.

"Followed by eight lashes in the square," Uther continues, and there's a collective intake of breath. Merlin himself is shocked. He's been here long enough to recognise the unwarranted severity of the sentence. He's seen pedlars and merchants with similar wares before; the harshest penalty given is usually the injunction to move on to another town.

"Please…" the boy whimpers.

"Consider yourself lucky," Uther spits. "If there'd been even a drop of magic within these baubles, I'd have seen you hang."

He nods at the guards, who come forward to haul the boy to his feet. He's crying now, the tears staining his face making him seem even younger than before. Merlin feels his stomach roil unpleasantly. A flogging is usually reserved for criminals of wickeder intent – thieves, and bandits, men who commit violent crimes. Not skinny sixteen year old boys trying to sell crudely painted pebbles in exchange for food.

It's cruel and unjust.

He turns to Arthur, hoping against hope that the Prince might try and mediate with his father, but Arthur's face has shut down. Merlin feels frustration rising in him. Arthur's not going to say anything. Even though he can see Arthur's discomfort in the tightness of his jaw, even though he knows there's no way Arthur advocates the flogging of children for what was barely a crime: Arthur won't speak up against his father.

Merlin bites his lip till it hurts, listening to the sobs of the boy as he's dragged from the room.

He can't let it go, though. When he's tending the fire that night in Arthur's room, he risks mentioning the incident. Arthur merely grunts, not looking up from the letter he's writing.

"Is eight lashes the usual punishment for that kind of thing?" Merlin says carefully.

"No," Arthur replies shortly.

"Right. I just thought… well, I remembered those travellers selling the amulets last winter, and the King only told the guards to move them along, and I-"

"What exactly is your point, Merlin?"

Arthur's voice has just the faintest hint of iron to it.

Merlin girds himself, and gets up from the fire.

"I think the King was wrong in his judgement today," he says quietly.

Arthur fixes him with a look.

"Such talk is treasonous."

"He was a boy, Arthur. Barely sixteen summers. The charms were only ornamental."

Arthur sighs, putting his quill down.

"Sorcery is on the rise. We have to be more vigilant, and false trails like these can prove to be fatal distractions. I assume the King intends the sentence to serve as a deterrent to similar trinket sellers."

"I don't think anyone took his charms to be true magic, Arthur. Camelot doesn't need to be vigilant against every stripling with a market stall," Merlin argues, irritated by the fact that Arthur is simply parroting his father's words, with very little conviction of his own.

"Threats to the kingdom can come from the unlikeliest of places Merlin, and we would be fools not to take every warning into account."

"But surely you don't agree-"

"Enough! Whether or not I agree with my father is immaterial. He is my King, and as such I will bow to his commands."

Merlin feels a kind of cold trickle down his back. That was the true crux of it, wasn't it? Arthur might not believe in what Uther said, but he would uphold his father's laws anyway. Even if a boy is to be put to the whip. Even if Merlin is found out to be…

He swallows the thought down quickly, turning to busy himself with Arthur's ripped tunic. He can feel Arthur's gaze upon him as he works but he does not turn around.

"Merlin," Arthur's voice comes, softer than before. "I don't like it any more than you do, frankly. But my father is resolute. And the boy will survive eight lashes."

Merlin doesn't point out that it only takes one lash to cause an infection that could prove deadly. He knows that Arthur is offering an olive branch, but a part of him doesn't want to take it. How many more must be punished like this, to satisfy Uther's bottomless rage? How many more must die?

"I will take these plates now, sire," he says quietly, lifting the leftovers of dinner from the table. Arthur looks pained, but nods.

"I shall see myself to bed tonight, you may retire. But be back to wake me at dawn, I wish for us to go hunting early tomorrow."

Merlin assents and hurries from the room. It's not until he's climbing into bed himself that he wonders if Arthur's sudden desire for a hunt has to do with not wanting Merlin to witness the flogging tomorrow. The thought makes him grateful, and also angry, and his sleep is uneasy that night.

~III~

It's one week after the charm seller's punishment that Merlin's secret is exposed.

It's not a rogue sorcerer or any kind of magical attack that does for him in the end. At least being discovered in the act of saving Arthur or Uther's life might have lent him some credit. As it is, the enemy to vanquish is no more than a stone in the wall. A stone that comes loose halfway through a banquet to celebrate the visit of Lord Fairfax.

The shame of it is, Merlin genuinely likes Lord Fairfax. Of all the visiting nobles he's been assigned to serve since he came to Camelot, Lord Fairfax is easily the most gracious. A quiet, softly spoken man, his gentle demeanour hid a keen and sharp mind. Merlin had been tasked to carry his trunk to his room, and had been pleasantly surprised to unpack not weapons or hunting regalia, but books. Lord Fairfax had caught him lingering over the volumes, and, rather than remonstrating with him for impropriety, had opened up several of the tomes to show Merlin the beautifully printed illustrations and fine penmanship. The fact that the Lord also treated his young daughter Elizabeth with great respect and kindness confirmed Merlin's good opinion of him.

It's this good opinion that causes Merlin to keep a closer eye than usual on Lord Fairfax at the feast, ready and eager to meet his needs. For a lesser, meaner noble, he might not have been watching so solicitously. But as it is, he is the only one to spot the huge stone as it comes loose from the wall and plummets down towards Lord Fairfax's head.

It's pure instinct, as on the very first day he came to Camelot and saved Gauis' life. There's no time to think or even incant a spell, he simply raises his hand and the stone freezes in the air, hovering three metres above the Lord.

Instantly, the eyes of the hall are upon him, and the realisation of what he's done hits him like a mace to the stomach. His concentration on the suspended stone slips for a second and he gasps, quickly flicking his hand to let the stone fly backwards and smash harmlessly onto an empty patch of floor.

There are a few seconds of complete and utter silence and then the King jumps to his feet.

"Seize him!" he roars, face purple with rage.

Frantically, Merlin's eyes flick across the room; gaze falling for a moment on Lord Fairfax's pale countenance. He's staring at Merlin with naked fear in his eyes, and too late it occurs to him how his actions must have appeared more like an assassination attempt than a rescue.

The guards are almost upon him and he only has time to turn his head and seek out Arthur's eyes before they drag him from the room.

Arthur looks… shocked. And betrayed. Merlin wants to tell the truth, for what little it will count in Uther's court, but he only has time to shout "Arthur!" once, desperately, before the doors slam shut behind him.

~III~

The guards take him deeper in the dungeons than he's ever been before, and it's not long before he learns why.

He's thrust into a cell and shoved to the floor, guards locking his hands securely into a pair of manacles hanging from the wall.

The minute the manacles close around his wrists, he feels the change. It's a bit like suddenly being held underwater, everything distorts. The feeling subsides slightly after a few moments, but when he reaches for his magic, he finds it muffled, as though trapped under a blanket.

The manacles are clearly specially made to suppress magic; he must be in one of the cells used in the great purge. He can certainly feel the disorientation inside himself. And yet, he knows he can still reach his magic. It's harder; the source of power feels fuzzy and muddled. But as he hears the guard's footsteps recede he concentrates hard and manages to send a stone skittering from one end of the cell to the other. It takes much more effort than it normally would, like he's forcing his magic through a space too tight for it, but he can do it. He knows he will be able to crack the manacles when the time comes, and make his escape.

Escape? How did it come to this? Merlin leans back against the wall, the adrenaline from the feast finally subsiding, quickly replaced by shock and grief. He has been found out. And now he has to leave, and he has no way of knowing when he can return, if ever. So much for destiny.

Merlin thinks of Arthur; the betrayal on his face. He never got to tell him on his own terms, never got to show him the good that magic could do. Now Arthur's memory of him will be that of a traitor, who tried to kill a Lord and then fled in the night.

A sob rises in his throat and Merlin suppresses it. No. He refuses to believe it ends this way. How could the Great Dragon have spoken so much of his and Arthur's twin destiny, if exile was his final destination? This must be part of his fated path. Either it's necessary for destiny that he goes away to one day return, or he isn't going anywhere. There's still a chance that Arthur might come and find him in this cell, hear his side of the story, talk to his father…

He takes several deep breaths, trying to clear his head. His magic must have been revealed for a reason, he just doesn't know what it is yet. Now is not the time to brood. He needs to plan his course of action.

He won't crack the shackles yet. The castle is still very much awake; he needs to wait until most are asleep to take his leave. If possible, he would also like to sneak by his room before he goes, less for his possessions than for a moment to say goodbye to Gaius…

Gaius. Sorrow swells in Merlin. What if destiny demands he be away from Camelot for a prolonged time? What if by the time he returns, Gaius is-

It doesn't bear thinking about. He tries to calm himself again, but his heart is racing.

Why did this have to happen?

The thought torments him. He looks around the cell for distraction, and his eyes fall on a bundle of rags in the next cell along. He stares for a while, thoughts swarming in his brain, and then nearly cries out when the bundle moves.

If he strains his eyes in the dim light, he can see the outline of a man, though one so emaciated it's a wonder he breathes at all. His clothes are mere rags, yet it looks as if they once were quite fine robes. Merlin can just about make out strange markings on the man's face and arms…

A druid. There's a druid locked down here in the secret cells. The cells where no-one comes anymore.

Merlin puts it together in his mind. Uther cannot be seen to declare war on the druids without risking reprisals. So when he captures one, there is no trial or execution. He simply leaves them down here to rot, unseen by the people.

Merlin is sickened. He has never had any love for the King, but he at least could concede that Uther acted according to some sort of moral code. But there is no honour in this. This is cowardice, plain and simple. The druids are a peaceful people. The man clearly committed no crime, or else there would have been a trial. He's simply been left to die here.

How many times has Uther done this?

He tries to speak to the man, but receives only groans in return. He wants to reach out with his magic, but is aware he needs to preserve his energy to be able to break the manacles when the time comes. He tries to whisper soothing words into the dark. If he can, he swears he will come back for this man. Although the wrench in his gut tells him that the druid doesn't have long left.

He's so wrapped up in his attempts to make contact he fails to hear the footsteps approaching the cell. Then there's a sudden clang on the bars, and he looks up, startled.

The King stares back at him, anger barely contained.

"Your execution is set, sorcerer. You die at dawn."

Merlin says nothing.

"This, you cannot change. However, the means of execution is not yet fixed."

Uther gestures to his accompanying guard, who comes forward to unlock the cell door. Uther steps inside.

"Tell me of your plans against Lord Fairfax and Camelot, or name me any co-conspirators in your crimes, and I will see you are dispatched with a single, painless swing of the headman's axe. Remain silent, and it will be the drawn out agony of the pyre for you."

Merlin looks up at Uther with loathing. He feels no fear of the man now, only contempt.

"I'm waiting."

Merlin spits on the ground at Uther's feet. Enraged, Uther surges forward to grab Merlin by the hair, pulling his head back painfully.

"You dare defy me? I'll see you burnt for hours, sorcerer, until your skin is black as coal and your flesh sizzles like roasted meat."

A hollow, bitter laugh echoes through the cell and it takes Merlin a moment to realise it's not coming from him.

Uther releases his hair in surprise and turns to the cell next to them, where the bundle of rags is slowly sitting up.

"You've met your match this time," the druid wheezes, his voice as dry as sand. Sitting up has brought him into the light, and Merlin winces to see the skin stretched over the skeletal face, the eyes like pits of tar. He's seen the body of a woman who starved to death before, back in Ealdor, and the druid looks no better. Merlin would be surprised if he even lasted the night.

He's so horrified by the way the druid looks that he doesn't register what the man has said until Uther barks "What?" beside him.

"You think you can burn him?" the druid rasps. "You think you're the man to kill the greatest warlock of all time?"

Oh no. No no no. He has a strong feeling Uther finding out that he's more than just a mere conjurer would be very bad for his wellbeing.

"Peace, my friend," he whispers urgently but the druid doesn't seem to hear him.

"You are raving." Uther says.

The druid laughs again, and it turns into a racking cough.

"I am right. That boy is beyond your power. You cannot kill Emrys."

A shadow passes over Uther's face.

"Emrys?" he says, and he sounds almost afraid.

The druid smiles, though it looks more like a grimace.

"Your doom is here, Uther Pendragon," he croaks. And without warning, his eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps to the ground.

There is a moment of silence in the cell. Then Merlin tears his eyes from the prone body back to the King beside him.

The look on Uther's face sends a chill through him and he knows with a sudden clarity that he has to make his escape now, _right now_, before it's too late.

The King steps forward just as Merlin forces his magic through his body, expending all the energy he has to crack the two shackles down the middle and free his aching arms.

But the effort is too much, and before he can summon up the spell to take him far away from here, the King is upon him. He feels something heavy crash down upon his head, and then he knows no more.

~III~

He comes to awareness slowly. The physical sensations make themselves known first; the cold stone against his cheek, the dull ache in his head. Then his mind engages, enfolding him in quick and potent terror as he recalls the conversation in the cells, the calculation in Uther's eyes.

Then finally, the horrible aching loss. For a moment Merlin thinks he's gone deaf, or blind; because something that should be there in his body is completely absent. But he can see the stone floor he's lying on, can hear the sound of his own heart beating in his chest. So his senses aren't missing. What's missing is…

The revelation hits him like a ton of bricks. He can't feel his magic. At all.

Panic floods him as he struggles to sit up. There are no shackles on his wrists, no cold iron pressed against him; so where is his magic? Has Uther taken it from him? Is that even possible?

He searches desperately inside himself but there's nothing, not a trace, not even a whisper of his power remaining…

"How does it feel?" says a quiet voice behind him.

Merlin turns, supporting his weak body on hands and knees.

Uther is sat in a chair behind him, against the backdrop of what Merlin now realises is the King's own personal chamber. His hands are clasped in front of him and his face is calm, devoid of the rage that disfigured it in the dungeons. It's somehow much more terrifying.

"How did-" Merlin manages to choke out before words fail him, because he has no doubt the King is referring to his newfound lack of power.

"The collar," Uther says, one hand flicking casually towards Merlin's throat.

With shaky hands Merlin reaches up to touch his neck, and his fingers meet a wide metal band, engraved with words or symbols that he cannot see. His fingers grope round the back instantly, looking for a release clasp, but there is none, only a tiny ring hook set into the back. The whole band feels smooth, like there's no join where it was melded together. Merlin knows instantly that it's an object of magic.

"I was disinclined to believe the ramblings of your Druidic friend," Uther says evenly, as though in answer to a question Merlin had voiced. "But then you broke the cold iron shackles. No sorcerer of average power could achieve such a feat."

Merlin is barely listening, his fingers still frantically tracing the etchings in the collar, as though they might hold the key to his escape.

"And yet, I have seen such feats before. There have been sorcerers possessed of such magic that cold iron cannot contain them. For them, stronger restraints were fashioned."

Uther gestures at the collar that Merlin still tugs at.

"I have not had cause to use this collar in twenty years, but I have always kept it close. I knew it may one day be needed."

He smiles thinly.

"You will not break through this one. Even if you are… Emrys."

"I'm not," Merlin says instantly, desperately. "I don't know what that man was talking about."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it. I have arranged for proof of my own."

The King's voice is still even and low. Merlin has seen him wild and raging about magic before, on the edge of sanity, but he has never seen him speak so steadily of sorcery. He appears to be completely in control of himself, of the situation, and it makes Merlin shiver.

Uther leans forward, about to speak again, when there is a knock on the chamber door.

"Enter," he calls.

A guard comes into the room, followed by a cloaked and hooded man.

"Cyrus Ambrose, sire, as requested," he says deferentially, gesturing to the man behind him.

Uther nods, dismissing the guard with a flick of his hand.

The cloaked man steps into the room, slowly drawing down his hood to reveal a sallow face and close set eyes, framed by wispy grey hair.

"Your highness," he says, bowing low.

"Ambrose," the King nods. "Did you bring it?"

"I did, sire. Is this the boy?"

Ambrose turns his beady gaze on Merlin, who attempts to scramble to his feet.

"Stay down," the King says, in a tone that brooks no argument. Merlin's too disorientated for defiance, he sinks back to the floor.

"He does not resemble the Emrys of legend," Ambrose says with a slight sneer.

"That is for you to ascertain," Uther replies, unsmiling.

Ambrose makes another short bow.

"As you wish, sire."

He moves to stand over Merlin who shrinks back suddenly, because even in his befuddled state he understands this is the man Uther has called for "proof". Is Ambrose a hired interrogator? Will he torture him until he confesses to being Emrys?

Ambrose reaches into his cloak and Merlin steels himself for what arcane device might be produced. But it's only a vial filled with a dull green liquid, barely two swallows full.

"Open your mouth," Ambrose directs, unstoppering the vial, and Merlin shakes his head, clamping his lips together. Uther steps forward but Ambrose only laughs.

"Allow me, sire," he says, and in a move that belies his aged appearance, spryly knocks Merlin backwards to the floor and climbs onto him to straddle his chest, knees pinning Merlin's arms to his side. One bony hand reaches out to hold Merlin's nose, the other clutches the vial in readiness.

Merlin struggles but his physical strength has never been his best asset, and he's fatally weakened by the blow to his head and the horrible draining effect of the collar. Ambrose waits, patiently, until the pressure in his chest builds to unbearable levels and he just has to open his mouth to take in some air. Quick as a flash, Ambrose forces the vial's neck into his mouth, tipping the contents down his throat. Then he presses his hand over Merlin's mouth to make sure he swallows.

Satisfied, Ambrose gets to his feet, and Merlin cautiously sits up. The liquid had not tasted particularly unpleasant or bitter and Merlin wonders what it's supposed to do.

He gets his answer five seconds later when a piercing pain slices through his stomach, bending him double. He barely has time to cry out before the pain has spread throughout his body, lancing like fire along his limbs, into his chest, his throat. It's like nothing he's felt before, a white hot agony that constricts his muscles and causes his extremities to spasm uncontrollably. He's screaming, rolling back and forth on the floor, unable to think about anything other than the unremitting torment consuming his flesh, he can't stand it, he'd rather die, make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop…_

Then, suddenly, it's over. He's lying on his back, breath coming in ragged gasps, shaking like a leaf.

The room comes back into focus. Two faces hover above him. Dimly, he registers the shock on Ambrose's face, and the tightness of Uther's jaw.

"I didn't think it was true," Ambrose murmurs, half-awed.

"Can you be certain?" Uther snaps.

"It interacts directly with the amount of the power in the blood, sire. The most I've ever seen is a mild discomfort. Even that High Priestess we had was only wincing. She said it felt like stomach cramps."

Ambrose leans forward, hand outstretched, and Merlin shies away, not wanting to be touched by this monster.

"Ambrose," Uther raps out and the man freezes, before retracting his hand. "That is all for tonight."

"Yes sire," Ambrose says, bowing.

"However, I shall have need of your services again."

Uther's eyes bore into the other man's.

"For training purposes."

A half smile flits across Ambrose's face, and he nods.

"I will go home and gather my materials."

"Very well. I will send for you."

Uther turns away and Ambrose drops one last craven bow before leaving the chambers.

The sound of the door shutting seems to echo in Merlin's throbbing head.

"So," Uther says softly. "All this time, you've been hiding in plain sight."

Merlin hauls himself up to sit again, accepting that his twitching limbs won't let him stand for now.

"How long have you been plotting against us, sorcerer?" Uther hasn't raised his voice yet but Merlin can sense the oncoming storm. "How long have you been working against Camelot from the inside?"

"I haven't-"

"Silence," Uther says calmly. "I have no need for your lies. Whatever your plans were, you have failed. Your evil has been contained."

"So you'll put me to the pyre," Merlin spits, all of a sudden too angry to be afraid. "Without fair trial, without hearing my story. Behold the almighty justice of Camelot."

Unexpectedly, horribly, Uther smiles.

"You won't be put to the pyre. What use are your ashes to me?"

Merlin doesn't understand. He's not going to be executed?

"The dungeons, then-" he says haltingly, and Uther smiles wider.

"I think not. Why put all that treacherous power to waste when I can harness it for the good of my people?"

His gaze bores in Merlin.

"You're going to be my collared sorcerer. You're going to be my weapon."

"No," Merlin says, struggling to his feet despite the pain it causes. "I won't do it. I won't use my magic in service of your butchery."

He'd rather die here and now, than let himself become Uther's puppet. He won't use his magic to maim and kill, to garner more power for the tyrant King.

"But you will. If you wish to protect those you love."

Merlin does a frantic search in his mind, trying to guess which of his loved ones Uther is threatening. He wouldn't hurt Gaius, surely, and Arthur and Morgana are safe by virtue of being Uther's family. Merlin's not sure if Uther knows Gwen is his friend, but she's safely away in the North, he can't touch her…

"Two knights have been dispatched to Ealdor to retrieve your mother."

Merlin's blood runs cold.

"I won't kill her, not right away. She'll be tortured first, over a long period of time, maybe months. I have experts in my employ; they'll make sure she stays alive to endure it all. She'll be kept in the dungeons, of course. Some nights, I may throw her in a cell with whatever bandits and rogues have been arrested that day; see what they make of her."

Merlin lunges for the King, pulse hammering, hands desperate to tear and scratch at whatever flesh he can find.

The King repels him easily, grabbing his thin wrists and holding him in place even as Merlin struggles weakly.

"Is that what you want, sorcerer? To see the woman who bore you tortured and degraded? Because believe me, I'll make you watch every second of it."

He releases Merlin, sending him sprawling back across the floor.

"Submit to me, and she will not be harmed."

Rage and despair are coursing through Merlin's body, clouding his already pain-addled mind. He's dizzy with Uther's cruelty, the tyranny of his actions. He cannot submit to Uther, not ever! But if he doesn't…

His mother's face comes into his head. He could never let anyone touch her. It's not really a choice at all.

"I submit," he mutters, eyes on the floor.

"What was that?"

"I submit," he grinds out, and he looks up to see the triumph in Uther's eyes.

"Very good, sorcerer," Uther intones. "Or should I say, 'slave'?"

Without warning, he reaches down to grab Merlin by his hair and begins pulling him across the room. When they reach the end of Uther's bed, he takes a length of rope from his desk and ties Merlin tightly to the bedframe by his wrists.

"I have business to attend to," he says. "When I return, I will lay out the conditions of your new position."

As Uther strides away, Merlin gathers together what little courage he has left.

"Arthur won't let you do this."

Merlin expects rage, but when the King turns, he looks victorious.

"Whatever misguided loyalty my son felt towards you was vanquished the second you cast that spell. He is in full agreement with me."

"No," Merlin says, because he doesn't believe it and he won't. Arthur would never agree to this. It must be a trick, Uther must have imprisoned him, locked him up, that's the only reason he hasn't come to save Merlin yet…

"Who do you think it was who told me your mother lived in Ealdor?" Uther says, with the air of someone playing a trump card. "Who do you think told me who the person you loved most in the world was?"

"No," Merlin repeats, but it's more of a whisper this time. _Arthur wouldn't, he couldn't…_

"It was his idea," Uther says, smiling cruelly. "He informed me I'd never keep you in line without something to hold over your head. He advised me on how to proceed."

"I don't believe you," Merlin says, his voice cracking.

"Does it come as such a shock? That the man you lied to for years might turn against you? That my son might be disgusted and repelled to learn that he kept such close counsel with a plotting sorcerer?"

Merlin winces, Uther's words cutting to the bone. Could it really be true?

The King sees his doubt, and he laughs briefly.

"You'll see for yourself, soon enough."

Then he turns on his heel and exits the chamber, leaving Merlin to agonise over all he has heard.

~III~

He doesn't know how long he sits there on the cold stone floor, hands tied above his head. Uther may think he has Merlin trapped, but it's not over yet. He has destiny on his side, and surely the dragon didn't intend for him to live a life of servitude and repression under Uther's boot. There must be a way out; he just has to find it.

He tries to plan, but realises quickly that all his schemes involve magic in some form or another. It's hard to accept that that particular tool is no longer at his disposal.

His lack of magic makes it very unlikely he'll escape under his own steam, unless he gets incredibly lucky. He'll need help.

The girls aren't here but Gaius is on his side, and he's been around long enough to know a few tricks. Surely he can think of something.

And there's Arthur…

Merlin's been deliberately trying not to think of Arthur.

He can't believe what Uther told him, and yet he can't dismiss it out of hand either. How else would Uther have known where his mother lived?

It seems like an unforgivable betrayal. How could Arthur use his mother like that?

But then, from Arthur's perspective, Merlin is a dangerous sorcerer. As far as he's concerned, he saw Merlin attempt to assassinate Lord Fairfax. And all he's heard since then is Uther whispering in his ear about how Merlin's been working against Camelot the whole time, for his own evil ends.

_Does it come as such a shock? That the man you lied to for years might turn against you?_

He has lied. For good reasons, but Arthur doesn't know that. He'd hoped the time he'd spent with Arthur so far might have proved his loyalty, but if Uther's poisoned Arthur against him…

Merlin can't bear to think about it. But even if Arthur is angry at him now, surely he'll never allow Uther to enslave him like this. It's inhumane. And Arthur has never been cruel.

The topic of Arthur is too painful so Merlin pushes it from his mind, instead trying to formulate a plan. But his head is pounding, his body still trembling slightly from the agony of the potion, and he's so tired…

He must have drifted off at some point because he wakes to a hand slapping his face and he jerks away in panic, momentarily unable to remember where he is.

Then he looks at Uther's face above him and it all comes back.

"I have met with the council," Uther says, as smoothly as if they were picking up a previous conversation. "They have approved my course of action."

Merlin feels a rush of anger at the thought of a group of old men deciding his future. Unanimously agreeing to sentence him to torment and slavery.

And yet surely some must have balked at the idea of using magic, no matter to what end. Uther's abrupt volte-face will not be easy for everyone to accept, given long years of insistence that magic will be tolerated under no circumstances.

He supposes it doesn't matter if they balked. Uther has the final say, and recent months have proved that he's increasingly closed off to advice or argument.

Uther settles himself in his chair.

"They have assisted me in drawing up a set of guidelines for your new position."

He indicates the scroll in his hand.

"Your days will be spent training your magic for Camelot's benefits. You will study spells that can be of use in battle-"

"How?" Merlin snarls. "I'm fairly certain you executed everyone that might have taught me."

"Ambrose remains loyal to me," Uther says. "And he is a competent instructor. I knew there might be a time when his services would be required again."

"Hypocrite," Merlin hisses. "You profess to hate magic, yet you have no qualms about harnessing it for your own advantage."

"You think that makes me a hypocrite, boy?" Uther fixes him with a cold eye, rising to his feet. "It makes me a leader. Let the monks and scholars keep their hands clean and their souls pure. A leader is one with the strength to do what is necessary. Cenred has forced my hand, and I am more than prepared to beat him at his own game."

"You can't-"

A backhand to the face stops Merlin mid-sentence.

"Don't forget yourself, slave. Your opinion is of no interest to me."

Merlin clenches his aching jaw, rage coursing through his body. Uther surveys him before continuing.

"When Ambrose is not training you, you will serve me."

Merlin feels a bubble of hysteria rising within him, and he almost laughs.

"You never thought me much of a manservant before."

"You will not be my manservant," Uther says calmly. "You will be my slave. You will wear what I say, eat when I say, sleep when I say. You will crawl behind me when I walk, kneel beside me when I sit. And thus Camelot shall be under no illusions about the power their King wields over sorcerers."

Merlin feels bile rising in his throat. Uther doesn't just want him as a weapon; he wants to humiliate him too. To show the world he can degrade the legendary Emrys; that he can control magic itself.

"You no longer have a name," Uther continues. "You are property. You answer to everyone in the castle now; there are none lower than you. Whatever they command you to do, you will obey. Your days of insubordination are over; there will be no mercy like my son has shown you in the past."

There is nothing in Uther's eyes but keen, sharp hatred.

"I refuse," Merlin chokes out.

"Then your mother's wellbeing is forfeit."

He'd forgotten. He has no choice. Hot tears spring to Merlin's eyes and he forces them away before Uther sees.

It's bad enough that his magic's going to be used without his permission; he can't bear the indignity of being subject to this man. Or to anyone else who chooses to order him about.

He thinks of his friends amongst the servants and townsfolk, and even some of the knights. How will he look them in the eye?

Then he thinks of his enemies, and a shudder runs through him. There have always been knights and squires that have begrudged him his closeness with Arthur; servants that have resented the freedom of speech Arthur allows him. What will they do him, when he is forced to follow their commands? He imagines their triumph at his shame, their mocking eyes upon him.

Uther is watching him very closely.

"You begin to understand," he says, his tone offhandedly cruel. "I can devise no better punishment for a traitor at the heart of court, than to become slave to the court. No doubt some men may want to take revenge on you for their suffering at the hands of magic, this I will allow."

He pauses, and a very small smile begins to play at the corner of his mouth.

"No doubt some men may want to make use of you in other ways. This I will also allow."

Merlin doesn't understand, and then suddenly, horribly, he does.

"You can't-" he gasps, chest constricting with horror.

"I can. May it be a valuable lesson in knowing your place. You are nothing but a tool to be used for the benefit of Camelot."

There is obvious relish in his voice. Merlin can see that the idea of the great Emrys subjugated on every level is a source of infinite pleasure to Uther.

"You disgust me," he spits.

Uther smiles, and it's a terrible thing.

"It's you who'll be disgusting, sorcerer. When they whip your back until your skin hangs off, or when they fill your mouth and arse so full of seed you'll be dripping with it."

Merlin rears back, sick to his stomach, seared by the naked loathing in Uther's voice. The King has lost all sense of proportion or reason; relinquished whatever tenuous grip on reality he retained. There's nothing left but a yearning for brutal, sadistic revenge. Like he's a symbol for all magic users everywhere, Uther intends to slake his lust for retribution on Merlin's body and soul.

He is numb with fear, choking back the vomit clawing at his throat as Uther comes closer. Oh God, will Uther touch him now, do those terrible things to him?

But Uther interprets his fear correctly and his lip curls in disgust.

"Don't flatter yourself. I would rather sever my own hand than reach for a sorcerer with lustful intent."

Instead he slices through the ropes binding Merlin so that his hands fall to his sides.

"Clean these chambers. And do a better job than you do on my son's, or you'll find out how a real master punishes disobedience."

He walks towards the door, then turns at the last moment.

"You will be presented to the court tonight. Be ready."

~III~

Merlin spends ten minutes mechanically tidying after Uther leaves before nausea overwhelms him and he's sick in the chamber pot. Once his stomach is purged he curls up on his side, gasping, overwhelmed with panic and fear.

His magic's gone. Arthur hates him. Uther controls him. And the men of the court are going to beat him and r-r-

He vomits again, unable to even think the word, but there's nothing to come up so he's left dry heaving wretchedly, his throat burning.

He's still lying on his side, unable to move, when someone enters the room.

His mind has gone elsewhere, unable to process the horror; and he only comes back to himself when he feels fingers stroking through his hair, before coming down to touch the collar round his neck.

He shies away, terrified, until he hears a familiar voice.

"Oh my boy. What has he done to you?"

He pushes himself to a sitting position and turns to see his uncle crouched beside him.

"G-Gaius?" he says, and bursts into tears.

The physician reaches forward, pulling him into an embrace. Merlin leans into Gaius' shoulder, sobbing like a child.

They stay like that for a while, and then Gaius draws back.

"Merlin, I'm afraid I haven't long. I'm being kept under watch, and my chambers are guarded."

"What?" Merlin sniffs, attempting to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "Why are you under watch?"

"Uther suspects me of knowing about your magic. He has no proof as yet, but it's enough to confine me for now."

"I didn't tell him," Merlin swears. "And I won't, I promise."

Gaius shakes his head sadly.

"I am not worried for myself, Merlin. Are you alright? Are you injured anywhere?"

"No. I was hit on the head but it doesn't hurt too much," Merlin says quickly, even as Gaius feels around his head for the lump, before tracing his fingers across the bruise on Merlin's jaw.

Gaius turns his gaze to the collar, his eyes looking infinitely pained.

"Do you know how to get it off?" Merlin asks, suddenly spying a way out of all this. But his heart sinks when Gaius shakes his head.

"I have seen it before, though not for a long time. It can only be opened or closed by reciting a certain command. I do not know the word sequence."

"I have to get it off," Merlin says thickly, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes again. "Gaius, he- he knows I'm Emrys. He's going to make me fight for him; he wants to use my magic."

"It is as I feared," Gaius says, looking graver than Merlin has ever seen him.

"I don't know what to do," Merlin says, hysteria creeping into his voice.

"Hush," Gaius says, reaching out to grasp Merlin's hands in his own. "We will find a way."

They sit in silence for a minute, then Merlin remembers.

"Have you seen Arthur?" he says desperately. "Is he okay? Has Uther put him under guard too?"

Gaius looks away.

"No, he is not under guard," he says, and his tone tells Merlin everything he needs to know.

"He hates me," he says brokenly.

"No, no my boy, he's just confused. Uther has been filling his head with nonsense, but Arthur will remember himself in time."

Gaius doesn't sound at all convinced and Merlin suddenly doesn't want to cry anymore. He feels like all his tears have been used up, and there's nothing left but a cold, heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.

"We can't rely on him," he says dully. "It's just the two of us."

Gaius looks like he wants to argue for a moment, then his shoulders sag.

"I will get you out of here," he promises. "I just need time."

Merlin doesn't say that time is something he doesn't have. Gaius might get him out before he's forced to go to war with Cenred, but he won't get him out before he's forced to… to do things that will ruin him forever.

"Forget about me," he says quietly. "Uther's sent knights to get my mother. Gaius, find a way to help her first. If you can get word to her, or if you can help if she's brought here…"

Gaius pales significantly at the news that Hunith is in danger but he maintains a brave face.

"Of course. I can try to send word via magical means; I have a spell somewhere. But I will not forget about you, Merlin."

Merlin feels a great wave of hopelessness wash over him. Gaius must see, because he shakes him gently by the shoulder.

"Don't give up," Gaius says urgently. "There is always a way."

There are footsteps outside the door and both of them freeze. But then they recede.

"I must go," Gaius says regretfully.

"How did you get out at all?"

"Thomas is on guard duty, and I nursed his little girl through a fever last winter. I cannot ask it of him again, however."

Merlin is glad, in an odd way. If Gaius is confined to his chambers, he cannot witness Merlin being degraded in front of the whole court as a slave. He couldn't bear his guardian to see him like that.

Gaius tugs him into one last embrace, before getting to his feet. Merlin gets up with him, and Gaius squeezes his shoulders.

"Keep hope alive," he says, and then he's gone.

~III~

Merlin cleans Uther's chambers as best he can, stumbling around even as the ache in his head makes him dizzy and disorientated. It's not all due to his head however; he knows the loss of his magic is having a serious effect on his equilibrium. He feels like he's been knocked off balance, everything's slightly askew. His very being is incomplete without it.

When Uther strides back into the room, he can only hope that his efforts are good enough to not attract the King's displeasure. He hates the man but he's scared, too.

Uther surveys the room and sneers slightly.

"I'd ask if this is the best you can do but I believe I already know the answer to that. I can see breaking you in will be no easy task."

Merlin bites back the retort that rises to his lips.

"We will attend to your shortcomings later, for now it's time to dress for the feast."

Uther's lips curl up at the sides; a wolf grin.

"Strip," he says.

Merlin swallows hard, torn between compliance and a useless display of resistance. Despite knowing the futility, his heart yearns for him to resist, to put up some kind of fight. But then he thinks of his mother and the collar and of how he needs to bide his time if he's ever going to escape.

Decision made, Merlin obeys; hands shaking as he removes his tunic. His fingers falter on his breeches, but he summons up all the courage he can muster and lets them fall to the floor. He stands there in his under-things, shivering.

"Those, too," the King says, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Merlin draws a deep, fortifying breath before removing the last of his clothing, quickly covering his crotch with his hands in a desperate attempt to retain a scrap of dignity.

The King's eyes flicker over him, and he feels hot shame spreading through his body, and casts his eyes to the ground. He believed Uther when the man said he had no lust for him, but the King's probing gaze makes him feel stripped of more than his garments. Being forced to undress like this is a clear reminder of his new lack of personhood, his loss of control over his own life.

"The fire," Uther says.

Merlin's gaze snaps up, confused.

"Put your clothes. Into the fire," Uther enunciates, like he's speaking to an idiot.

Merlin gathers his clothes together, and holds them in front of himself as he walks towards the fire; before dropping them into the crackling blaze. He has to blink back tears as another part of his identity is destroyed; it feels like every minute brings him further away from the man he was yesterday.

When he turns, Uther has settled himself in a chair and is pouring a goblet of wine.

"Wash yourself," he directs, indicating a bucket of water in the corner. "You're filthy."

It's true, Merlin can feel the grime from the dungeons on his skin, the stickiness of the dried blood on his head; but he's loath to wash in front of this man.

And yet, as in all else right now, he has no choice. He continues to try and shield himself as he walks to the bucket, before turning his back on the King.

Uther barks out a laugh.

"You can't hide anything from me now, boy. Your private life is over."

Merlin tries to ignore him, reaching in to retrieve the ragged cloth from the bucket. The water is freezing, as he expected, and he attempts to cleanse himself as quickly as possible; aware of the King's eyes upon him.

By the time he's finished, his shivering has intensified, though he knows better than to ask for a drying cloth.

"Turn around," the King commands.

He pivots, still covering himself as best he can.

"Hands by your sides," the King says lazily, and Merlin tastes acid in his mouth. He does as he's instructed, feeling a flush of mortification heat his face as the King's eyes drag over him.

"I'm tempted just to leave you like that," Uther says casually, sipping his wine. "Let the whole castle see your shame."

Merlin bites down hard on his lip, panic rising in him.

Uther draws out the silence, taking the time to enjoy Merlin's fear before he deigns to speak again.

"Still, it wouldn't do for you to catch a chill and die before you've served any purpose. Perhaps in summer, when the weather is warmer…"

He gestures dismissively towards the bed and Merlin hurries over to the clothing he can see there. He gratefully pulls on the undergarment, followed by a pair of thin and tattered breeches. He looks around the bed but there doesn't seem to be any more.

"Where's the tunic?" he asks, remembering to add a 'sire' on the end just in time.

"You have all you need," comes the cool reply. "I do not believe in wasting fabric on undeserving slaves."

Merlin's mouth sets in a grim line. So he's to be paraded half-naked in front of the court. Not for the first time, he wonders if he can bear this.

Uther rises to his feet.

"One final addition," he says, walking over to his bedside and fishing something out of a drawer. When he turns, Merlin sees a narrow length of chain with a loop of leather on one end, and his heart sinks.

"What's a dog without his chain?" Uther says maliciously. He turns Merlin round and attaches the chain to the ring hook on the back of his collar, before stepping back and giving it a sharp tug.

Merlin jerks towards the King, stumbling slightly.

Uther nods in approval and pulls Merlin across the room, then hooks the leather loop onto a nail on the wall.

"On your knees," he says and Merlin drops to the floor.

"Hands behind your back," Uther says. "Straighten your spine."

Merlin complies.

"This is how I want you when you are not serving me. If I leave you alone, I expect to come back to find you like this, or you will suffer the consequences."

Threat dispatched, Uther turns his back on Merlin and proceeds to prepare for the feast. His manservant, a man by the name of Richard, enters to help him dress and Merlin catches the quick, nervous glance the man gives him. Richard's gaze does not linger, but Merlin feels horribly exposed anyway.

_For my mother,_ he thinks. _For the sake of her, I can endure this._

When it's time to go, Uther yanks him to his feet by the chain and leads him down the corridor. Merlin keeps his head down, not wanting to meet the gaze of any passing servants or nobles. He sees only legs and feet passing by, wonders if he's imagining the gasps and whispers that sound in his wake. Every now and then Uther gives the chain a vicious tug, causing Merlin to nearly trip over.

He bears the indignity as best he can, until they reach the doors to the great hall and Uther stops suddenly, turning to him.

"I don't think you've earned the right to walk like a man, sorcerer," he says. "So, crawl."

Merlin's stomach sinks. For a second he imagines blasting Uther away with his magic, turning him into a frog, a beetle, crushing him beneath his foot… But he doesn't have his magic. So he lowers himself to his hands and knees.

Merlin knows he hasn't imagined the gasp that greets the sight of Uther Pendragon leading his son's manservant into the room on a chain like a dog, collared and half-naked. As before he keeps his eyes firmly affixed downwards, refusing to look at anyone as he shuffles forwards. The journey to the head of the table seems to take forever, Merlin feels acutely aware of every eye upon him, even if he will not meet their gazes.

Finally Uther settles himself in his chair, before giving the chain a sharp yank.

"Take up your position," he orders and Merlin raises himself onto his knees, hands behind his back. He keeps his eyes on the ground.

Satisfied, the King turns to address the assembly.

"You are all here to witness my victory over the sorcerer known as Emrys. Prophesised to bring about devastation through his wicked power, he took the guise of my son's blundering manservant in order to sow the seeds of destruction in the very heart of Camelot. But as ever, our enemies underestimate our strength and his plot is foiled."

Merlin nearly lifts his head when he hears that, to protest at the lies Uther is disseminating. But who would believe him? Who would even listen to him speak at this point?

"You may be wondering why he has not been put to the pyre for his crimes. The answer to that is: this is no ordinary sorcerer. His power is great, greater I believe than any of the sorcerers King Cenred has in his employ. For the good of our kingdom, I intend to harness his magic to our advantage."

There's definitely an outbreak of muttering at that and Merlin feels a small tendril of hope that maybe someone will object to this blatant betrayal of Camelot's anti-magic stance.

"I know that many of you may have qualms about this course of action, but I believe it is the only way to protect ourselves from our foes. Rest assured that this collar guarantees the boy cannot use his magic against us in any way. I am in full control of his power."

"But Sire," a quavery voice ventures, one that Merlin recognises as belonging to one of the older Lords. "Will you not have to remove the collar to use his powers in battle? Will he not turn on us then?"

"He has been made aware of the consequences of disobedience, and has thus submitted to me," Uther says.

"But surely-"

"Look at him, Sir Cardon."

Uther's voice is relaxed, persuasive. Merlin hates it. He wants Uther to sound enraged, paranoid, irrational. He wants them to doubt the King's state of mind, but this Uther has all the cogency and smoothness of the strong leader he claims to be.

"Does he not look subdued? Does he not look controlled?"

Merlin feels the eyes of the hall upon him and he can't help but blush, shamed by what they must see in him.

"You have nothing to fear from him," Uther says calmly. "He's merely a slave now."

Merlin flinches. It's not the first time he's heard that word today, to be said so casually, in front of all these people…

Uther carries on speaking but Merlin tunes him out, he can't stand to listen anymore. He's trembling slightly, his heart skittering in his chest. The fear and humiliation of being displayed like this is too much for him, he feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs. He tries to think about the techniques Gaius uses to calm patients down, and starts taking deep breaths in and out. It's maybe five minutes before he feels like he can breathe properly again, and by then the servants are already serving the first of the wine and mead.

He still hasn't looked up, yet in that strange way that he can always sense where Arthur is, he becomes aware that the Prince has sat down at Uther's side.

He has to look. He can't not. Raising his head a tiny fraction, he cuts his eyes towards Arthur.

The Prince is looking directly at him, eyes filled with rage and hatred.

It's like a physical blow. Merlin turns his gaze back down instantly, pain flooding through him. He never thought Arthur could look at him like that. What about two sides of the same coin? What about destiny?

Forget destiny. What about their friendship? Did it mean so little to Arthur? Is he really willing to stand here and let his father do this to Merlin?

Had he ever meant anything to the Prince at all?

Merlin wants to cry but he can't, not here, so he settles for driving his nails into the palms of his hands, as hard as he can.

Arthur hates him.

Destiny is broken.

He spends the rest of the feast in a haze of despair, blocking out the talk above his head. He just wants not to think for a while, not to feel the terror and shame and anger. He's so tired…

It's not until the final course has been cleared away that he comes back to himself, when he suddenly becomes aware of a most unwelcome sensation. Someone is stroking the top of his head, as they would a dog.

He lets his eyes flicker up and sees Sir Aldor, one of the longer serving knights in Uther's employ. Aldor occasionally prevails upon Merlin to help polish his armour or carry his weaponry to the training field, despite the fact he has a perfectly good squire of his own to assist him. Merlin knows exactly why, he can sometimes feel the man's eyes crawl across his body as he goes about his tasks. The knight has even hinted once or twice around the subject of Merlin 'privately attending' him in his rooms, but Merlin has always had the protection of Arthur to hide behind as he politely refuses.

That protection is gone now.

"May I examine him?" Aldor says cordially to Uther, as if he's requesting use of the King's quill.

"By all means."

He feels Aldor's hand grasp his chin, forcing him to look up.

"Who could have suspected?" Aldor muses. "Such a sweet face for so heinous a traitor."

His tone sends a shiver down Merlin's spine.

"His betrayal has cut us all deep," Uther agrees.

"I once considered myself something of a mentor to the boy, though I understand better now why he rejected the instruction I offered."

Merlin has to stifle a laugh at that, even in his misery. The kind of 'instruction' Aldor had wanted to offer him was certainly not of a mentoring sort.

The humour fades quickly as Aldor grabs a handful of his hair and twists his head back painfully.

"I'd like to teach him a lesson of a different kind now," he says darkly and Merlin cringes away from the obvious lust in the man's eyes.

"Why don't you?" Uther says carelessly. "I have no need of his services tonight if you wish to take him to your chambers and… give him instruction."

A cold sweat breaks out over Merlin's skin, and his vision blurs for a few seconds. He thought he might have more time, a chance to get away before someone tried to…

"I'd be delighted," Aldor says, and he releases his grip on Merlin's hair to flit his fingers across Merlin's closed lips, pressing on them with the pad of his thumb.

Merlin's extremities go numb. This can't happen, please don't let this happen, please someone stop this, _please…_

"Forgive me," Arthur's voice rings out. "I do not wish to deprive you of the… pleasure… Lord Aldor, but I had rather hoped I might be the first to ensure that the slave understands his new place in Camelot."

Merlin freezes.

"That's as it may be," Aldor splutters, clearly unwilling to give up on his promised prize. "But I-"

"Was he not my manservant, Father?" Arthur asks coolly. "Was I not the most lied to, the most deceived by his perfidy? Is it not fitting that I be the first to repay that deception tenfold?"

In the silence that follows, Merlin swears he can hear his own heartbeat.

"My son makes a good argument," Uther says briskly. "The slave will go with him tonight, and tomorrow shall be your turn Sir Aldor."

"Your majesty, I-"

"My decision is final," the King says with a hint of steel, and Aldor falls silent.

"My thanks, sire," Arthur says. "With your permission, I will retire."

"Very well. Bring him to my chambers in the morning," Uther says, and holds out the end of the chain.

Arthur takes it, and turns to Merlin.

"Get up," he says, no trace of warmth in his voice.

Merlin stands on shaky legs. Arthur barely waits for him to be upright before he walks forward, sharply jerking the chain behind him.

Although he promised himself he wouldn't, Merlin takes one quick look at the hall around him as he's dragged away.

Many of the people he sees are grinning, some making bawdy gestures and nudging one another. But some look highly uncomfortable, and one or two even distressed. His gaze falls upon Sir Leon for a second and the knight looks positively stricken, his eyes full of pity. He tries to take comfort from that, that at least one person isn't glorying in his subjugation.

It's cold comfort indeed as Arthur pulls him along the corridors. Merlin's almost blind with panic, there are spots dancing in front of his eyes.

If Arthur so much as touches him in that way, he'll…

He'll throw himself off the battlements. Destiny be damned. He will not stay bound to a man who… who…

Merlin wants to weep, wants to scream, but there's also the tiniest, quietest part of him that wants to hope. What if Arthur only said those things to get him away from Uther? What if Arthur wants to help him after all?

It's this tiny part of him that loosens his tongue as they finally reach the Prince's chamber and the guard opens the door to let them in.

"Arthur…" he says simply.

Then he's on the ground and he doesn't understand why for a second until he registers the burning pain in his cheek and realises that Arthur has just hit him. His Prince, his destiny, the other side of his coin, has just hit him across the face.

"Don't you dare use my name, sorcerer," Arthur hisses, hatred bright in his eyes, and the last flame of hope in Merlin's chest finally flickers out.

~III~

A/N: Thanks for reading! As ever with me, it always starts out miserable but there will be a happy ending...


End file.
